I have a book in my head. About one-third of it has actually been written down. The second third has been all mapped out. And the final one fifth is showing up only in dreamlike form.
Oh, wait. That doesn’t add up to a whole book.
Welcome to writing.
I know where the block came from. There were good, solid, practical reasons to ignore my screensaver that said, “write every day”. I know how that went from inspirational to accusatory. I was busy doing stuff and making big life decisions. That’s valid, right?
Right?
I’ve read all of the articles and even some academic papers on creativity and writers' block. Good advice, all of it. So, I read some more articles and academic papers and thought maybe the next one will be the key my particular problem.
Note that reading simply led to more reading and not to actually picking up a pen.
I decided to go back to the beginning. Well, not the very beginning where I wrote heartfelt, heartbreaking prose about boys who broke my heart but the beginning where I people watched until the stories appeared.
“People at The Bar”
They are sitting in the corner of the restaurant. It’s a big half moon booth that easily seats five, but they are only two. A mom and her son having a mid-day meal in the middle of the week.
Perhaps they caught my eye because, while this is a friendly and welcoming place, you don’t see many kids. While the restaurant side ages a little higher than the bar side everyone is dressed in such a way that you know they don’t wonder where their next meal – or Gucci watch, is coming from. It’s not that the food is pricey – in fact, it’s quite reasonable, but in this fairly gentrified up and coming hood that’s who shows up.
The mom in the booth is well kept. Her hair is freshly highlighted, and her nails have been done by a professional. She has a wide, welcoming face made even more beautiful by her big, engaging smile. Her eyes light up and her dimples appear, and everyone can see that the source of her delight is her partner for this mid-day rendezvous. For them, no one else is here.
He is about five. He reminds me of my step-son at that age. Dirty blond hair and deep brown eyes. He looks a little disheveled as only little boys can. He is wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and has that just-come-in-from-playing-outside look about him. He engages his mother in a story using his hands and arms in big swinging motions so that she’s sure not to miss the important points.
And she delights in him. She doesn’t miss a thing. Her eyes dance and twinkle as she reacts dramatically to whatever story he is telling. Maybe it’s about something that happened at school this morning. Maybe it’s about the monster that lives under his bed. Maybe it’s about his latest feat on the soccer field.
It doesn’t matter, really. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying.
She delights.
I’m watching from the other side – the bar side. On this side, there is more of a mix of characters. I’m sitting at the bar – not something I often do, but the staff is great and don’t make me feel weird for being here alone. There are professionals checking their phones and answering emails. There are agents presenting real estate deals. There the quasi-locally-famous finance guy who holds court at the other end of the bar. There are a few old-timers who seem not to have noticed that this is no longer the hole-in-the-wall dingy bar that it used to be. They hold up the bar wearing old tatted sweaters and yelling random things at whatever sport that happens to be on the screen. There are well-dressed men preening and deciding if they should keep their wedding rings on and well-dressed women in their 30’s and 40’s deciding whether or not they care.
On another day, or on another evening, the mom I see would fit in well with the bar-side crowd. But not today. Today she sits with no cell phone, no computer of any kind, not even so much as a pad of paper to distract her.
Today, she sits fully in the presence of her young son. Today she is reassuring him that what he is saying is important and deserves her undivided attention.
And at the bar side, we all desperately hope to find someone that will be so interested in us. Preferably one with no indentation on the ring finger on the left hand.
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